


Sleepless

by Pixietails



Series: Deep Blue [1]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: I Tried, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7918540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixietails/pseuds/Pixietails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By now he's used to the sleepless nights.  Sometimes they're not so bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hushitisme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hushitisme/gifts).



> Because Jen deserves nice things <3

* * *

 

    They were close.  They were _so_ close.  Even when everything had been turned upside down, when the ground beneath them felt as though it were falling away in huge, broken pieces--there was _still_ hope.  If they could keep going, if they could make it just a little bit further they would be out and on their way to something big.  Something _amazing_.  It would be a turning point in each one of their lives.

    Just a little more.

   Alarms blared, echoing through the humid evening, and yet somehow the gunshots felt infinitely louder.   _Closer_ , biting at their ankles as they ran.  Each step felt like a small miracle, as though they were cheating death itself.  More than once Sam had the unwelcome thought that they were finished, that _this_ time their stupid luck would run out.  There were _three_ of them, and he wasn’t about to leave someone behind to save his own skin.  Their chances seemed to dwindle rapidly, and yet they didn’t-- _couldn’t_ \--give up.  The finish line was right there in front of them, and all that was left now was to cross it.

    When Nathan managed the last jump Sam could have sworn his heart actually stopped for one, agonizing second.  God--what if he hadn’t cleared it?  What if he’d fallen there?  Sam honestly had no idea what he would have done then.  The entire world would have come crashing down around him, and he knew there would have been absolutely no way in hell he could have gone on without him.  Even if Nate hadn’t survived, if he had died there in that prison--there was just no way to continue.

    They were **brothers**.

    It seemed luck was somehow still on their side, and no such scenario played out.  The other two had made it safely to the tower, a fact that managed to lift the oppressive weight that had threatened to crush Sam’s chest with swift and sudden hostility. Air rushed back into his lungs as he prepared himself to move, and as Nathan reached out he took it as his cue to jump.

    For one brief, terrible moment Sam believed he wouldn’t make it.  He could practically _feel_ himself falling, could imagine his brother’s helpless panic and he felt his chest tighten painfully.  In that second he _knew_ the damage that would cause, and that even if he survived the fall it would mean leaving Nate alone.  But then strong fingers were curling around his wrist, pulling him up toward safety--toward _freedom--_ and Sam suddenly felt like he could laugh.  They had done it; they had gotten what they came to find, and _escaped_.  The thought sent hot relief searing through his body, crashing into him with almost tangible force--

   Confusion clouded his features, and as the strength seemed to leave his body in waves, Sam turned his gaze upward as though Nate would be able to provide him answers.  The cheerful smile that had so briefly lit up his face faded from blood-spattered lips, and once again he was falling.  The world around him faded, plunging him into icy darkness.  He could feel himself suffocating, _dying_ \--

    Sam’s eyes flew open just before he landed.  Just as they always did when he had the same dream, over and over--like an old film that was frustratingly stuck on repeat.  Though it wasn’t a nightly occurrence, the dream was frequent enough to leave him avoiding going to bed until it was necessary.  Thirteen years, and the scene still replayed itself, tormenting him. 

    This shit was starting to get _annoying_.

    For a few moments Sam didn’t move, lying in bed and stubbornly trying to force himself to ignore the hammering of his own heart and go back to sleep.  Despite how tired he felt, he was incredibly uncomfortable.  The covers were oppressive, leaving him feeling hot and stifled, and the longer he lay there the worse he began to feel.  Even the steady, rhythmic drumming of the late summer rain did nothing to lull him back to sleep.  Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he decided he needed a smoke.  With a small groan he carefully pulled himself away from the warmth still resting beside him, making sure he didn’t do anything too jarring.  There was no need for _both_ of them to be up and miserable.

    The air conditioning unit in Sam’s apartment was disappointingly small, and really only effective in the living area--and even _then_ it didn’t seem to work that well.  On especially hot days it felt almost like torture, and sleeping in that kind of heat was more or less impossible.  There _were_ benefits with working with Rafe during the summer; the man was able to offer his share of conveniences.  Coming home to a tiny, stuffy apartment just wasn’t one of them.  But standing there, watching the sleeping form in his bed, Sam realized that fact only made him appreciate Rafe that much more.

     _He had stayed_.

   It wasn’t an unheard of phenomenon, but on the warm, stormy night it somehow meant more than it usually did.  How often did Rafe decide to go home, back to his own comforts?  And how many of those times did he simply fail to even say goodbye?  The fact that he had stayed was important in himself, but for him to stay in bed on such a night…it really said a lot.

   A small, tired sort of smile tugged at the corners of his lips.  Their days were so hectic that sometimes it felt as though neither of them had managed to get a good night’s sleep in weeks.  After spending so long in prison, Sam had expected to just sink into his own bed and sleep days on end.  But Rafe had swept into his life like a hurricane; violent and unpredictable.  And Sam had come to the realization that despite their history, despite the obstacles and conflict, he didn’t actually _hate_ the situation he was in.

    Somehow Rafe made it all worth it.  

    Dragging himself away, Sam scooped his discarded t-shirt off of the floor and pulled it on as he made his way outside to the small, wrought iron balcony.  The rain was still falling steadily, and though the sticky, humid air did nothing to alleviate his discomfort, it was somehow calming to sit in the doorway and light up a cigarette.  The constant, bustling sounds of the city beneath him helped relax him, and even the air felt oddly lighter, as though the storm had managed to wash everything else away.  When he closed his eyes and took a long drag, Sam could almost imagine he was own world, far removed from his troubles and his stress.

    He was so withdrawn, so _focused_ , that the soft footsteps behind him didn’t even register.  It wasn’t until he felt someone sit down beside him that Sam even realized Rafe had woken up, let alone come to join him.  Quietly, Sam turned to look at him, searching his face in a vain attempt to try and see into his mind.  What was he thinking?  Was he upset that he had been woken up?  Or was there something else troubling him?

    If he was angry, Rafe had done a good job of hiding it.  From what Sam could tell he was tired, probably just as restless and feeling far too hot to stay in bed.  If he was sure he wouldn’t catch hell for it, Sam might have even been bold enough to comment on how cute he thought Rafe’s sleepy, slightly grumpy face looked.  But he knew starting a fight wasn’t worth it, and so he wisely kept his silence.

    Since Rafe seemed to have nothing to offer in the way of conversation, Sam brought the cigarette back up to his lips--and was surprised when it was suddenly plucked from between his fingers.  And yet he said nothing as Rafe took a tired drag, looking as though the world itself was weighing heavily on his shoulders.  It was rare that Rafe smoked, and Sam could only remember ever seeing him do it _twice_ when he was so wound up he couldn’t seem to relax.  He wasn’t even sure if the smoking itself was more concerning, or the fact that he _cared_ that Rafe was smoking.

   But then Rafe was moving, shifting so that he could lean his head against Sam’s shoulder.  He was overworked, drained, and most likely on edge--was it really so strange for him to seek out a little comfort?  It probably hadn’t even been a conscious decision.  But if Sam didn’t think much about it, the whole situation felt oddly calming.  In fact, he could almost say it made him... _happy_.  And while he felt like that should really bother him more, he didn’t want to dwell on it, not just yet.  He pushed it to the back of his mind, reached over and took the cigarette from Rafe’s slack fingers, and placed it between his own lips.  

   There would come a time when he would have to re-evaluate whatever sort of relationship they had, but tonight just wasn’t that night.  For now, he was content to sit there, and share a cigarette, and just watch the early morning rain pour down.


End file.
